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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22794616">Interwoven &amp; Inseparable</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jo2ukes/pseuds/jo2ukes'>jo2ukes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Verdant Wind AU [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(intsys give us more duscur content i beg of you. my soul for duscur lore), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Emotional Abuse, Post-Golden Deer Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), doing your boyfriend's hair is something that can be so Intimate and Emotional Actually, headcanon heavy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:27:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,874</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22794616</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jo2ukes/pseuds/jo2ukes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps it is muscle memory that makes his fingers itch, a longing for some semblance of familiar intimacy he once shared with Edelgard, resulting in Hubert quietly playing with Dedue’s hair while he plans a lesson for the village children the next day. The exact moment and circumstances of their domesticity is a puzzle. But then, much of their relationship is. The two of them are a mystery. An accident. Unintentional and non-linear. Two creatures clinging desperately to each other before all else.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dedue Molinaro/Hubert von Vestra</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Verdant Wind AU [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669594</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Interwoven &amp; Inseparable</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Hubert has always been a light sleeper- his eyes would have snapped open even if his limbs were not entangled around Dedue, who jolts awake. The second Dedue so much as twitches, Hubert is pulled to the present, alert and attentive. </em>
</p><p><em> Dedue’s chest heaves, and he shakes with a quiet fear. He glances, for the briefest moment at the fire slowly dying out in the hearth, still burning bright enough to illuminate his wide eyes, before turning quickly away. It’s unnerving and painful to see Dedue, typically so calm and level-headed and remarkably brave, actually </em> disturbed <em> by something. He runs a hand through his hair, keeping his eyes trained on a spot at the end of their bed, and purses his lips. </em></p><p>
  <em> “A dream?” Hubert asks. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dedue nods, sighing heavily. He closes his eyes for a moment, focusing on steadying his breaths. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Apologies for disrupting your sleep,” he says after a moment. His eyes flutter open and he leans over to press a kiss to Hubert’s forehead. “You should go back to bed.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “And leave you awake, to toss and turn? I should think not,” Hubert shakes his head. “What can I do that would help?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I… am not sure,” Dedue says slowly, “and I hate to burden you with something as trivial as a bad dream.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You are not a burden,” Hubert murmurs, pressing a kiss to Dedue’s shoulder. He is no stranger to night terrors- Edelgard had her share of them, and he was ever by her side, helping to ground her as she weathered whatever mental storm that brewed. Those experiences have, however, made him acutely aware of his shortcomings as a comforting presence.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They sit in silence for a moment, Hubert listening to Dedue’s breaths slow. He does not push for more physical contact, nor does he prod Dedue for more information, he simply observes. His handsome face dons a scowl, but it’s different from his usual serious expression, tinted with sadness, helplessness. When the fire emits several loud pops, he jumps slightly, and his fingers fidget with the knitted threads of their blanket. He bites his lip. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wordlessly, Hubert stands, ignoring the chill settling into his skin, and walks toward the fireplace. With quick fluid movements, he smothers the flame, plunging the room in a comfortable darkness interrupted only by the soft tones of the moonlight. He slowly makes his way back to bed, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light, but says nothing as he pulls the covers back up to his shoulders. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “That wasn’t necessary. Won’t you be cold?” Dedue asks, though his demeanor has already slightly changed, the muscles in his back far less tense, his grip on the blanket falling slack. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I have you,” Hubert says with a small laugh, sliding closer and resting his chin on Dedue’s shoulder as though to further emphasize his point. Dedue lets out a small chuckle of his own, wrapping his arms around Hubert’s waist. The two of them settle back against the pillows, face to face. Gazing into each other’s eyes seems almost too intimate, funnily enough, so they distract each other in different ways. Hubert gently traces the scars that litter Dedue’s chest and arms. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You’re having more dreams since we’ve settled here,” he observes. “Rather, you’ve been having more dreams since the fighting stopped. Your mind seemed to be well enough occupied commanding Duscur troops and orchestrating attacks on house Kleiman to keep the dreams at bay.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Being back in Duscur,” Dedue says slowly, “It’s all I ever wanted. And yet, I cannot let go of the fear that it can all be taken away again.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “House Kleiman is gone,” Hubert makes an attempt at a reassuring tone. “We saw to it ourselves, without help from Claude or any of the others. You and I. If any soul is foolish enough to try and take it from you again, you’ll stop them. And I’ll be by your side.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>  “You are right, of course. I wish knowing that made it easier to get that day out of my head.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “The day of the Tragedy?” Hubert asks. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dedue nods. “I feel a bit old to be having such dreams.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Hubert has suspected as much. Dedue never speaks much of his past- neither does Hubert- but the past is always there to haunt them. And Dedue’s is clouded with so much hurt and anguish, it only makes sense he would have no respite even in his sleep. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “It is almost laughable how we cannot stop tragedies that seem so far away, so distant, from inflicting the most grievous wounds, is it not?” he says slowly. He knows he’s helpless when it comes to offering any sort of meaningful conversation or comforting words. He supposes Dimitri must have been good for that sort of thing. It was a pain the two of them shared. It frustrates him that he cannot truly understand, that he cannot do more than be an anchor, that he does not have the power to wipe out the pain in Dedue’s past. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>  “You are right. The past should be left in the past.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “That is not quite what I mean,” Hubert says, cursing his lack of tact. “I mean to say, you can’t always outgrow your pain. Even if you’ve moved on, healed the only way you know how, it can still follow you. There’s no shame in that.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dedue sighs, running his hand through his long hair once more. He glances down at Hubert. He looks tired, yet simultaneously relieved. Much of the anguish and anxiety written into his features has faded- not disappeared entirely, but no longer does it dominate his normal easy demeanor. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I am afraid I haven’t much skill in the way of being any sort of emotional support,” Hubert admits, “but if there is anything I can do, say the word and it is done.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “How did you know the fire was bothering me?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I pride myself on my observant nature,” Hubert laughs lightly. “Sleep,” he says, pressing a kiss to Dedue’s chin. “I’ll be here.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I am grateful,” Dedue whispers, taking one of Hubert’s hands in his own and holding it to his chest. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Hubert watches as Dedue closes his eyes, listens as his breaths continually slow, waiting for any further signs of distress. After several moments, he presses a kiss to their interlaced fingers before allowing his own eyes to fall shut, heavy with sleep. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>His hands are built for destruction. This is what he has been told, this is what he has been taught. They are unsightly, reflecting the tasks he’s carried out in his short life. His long fingers are laced with scars and burns, the skin tinted with a dark purple up to his wrists that no amount of hot water or healing magic can remove. He was self-conscious as a child, when the marks first started appearing. When he was pushed too long and too hard and his body, quite literally, fell apart in front of his eyes. A testament to his power and potential, his father would say.</p><p>In the years since, Hubert has grown to see such unsightliness as a part of himself. A part of his destructive and violent duties. His calling is to live in the shadows- disfigured, disturbing- so those he serves can live in the light beyond reproach. In the past, in his Academy days, he would cover his hands- not out of shame, but rather out of a sense of protection, keeping them sheathed much as one would sheathe a sword. There’s little difference between his hands and a sword, after all.</p><p>Or at least, there once was.</p><p>Now, as he watches the silver strands of Dedue’s hair fall gently through his fingers, he almost wonders if his hands hold a different sort of power, if his purpose is not as single-minded as his father would have had him believe. If he truly has any capacity for creation or gentility. </p><p>Dedue makes him wonder if there are parts of himself he didn’t know existed before. His presence nourishes undisturbed areas of Hubert’s personality, kindly guides them forward and strengthens them. Fundamentally, he’s still a von Vestra, of course. There’s no antidote for the venom inherent within his being, but Dedue makes him wonder if he could remove his fangs.  If he could abandon his identity and start anew, or at least reshape it.</p><p>The fire pops loudly in the hearth, casting a rosy light in the room. They spend all of their nights like this: together in front of the fire, simply taking a moment to <em> be </em>, to come together before turning in for the night.</p><p> An odd feeling settles in his chest. It’s a feeling that has been haunting him more lately, one he isn’t sure he’ll ever have the words for, but as they fall into their routine, into this normalcy that he would have once found droll and uninteresting, he realizes “haunting” isn’t quite the right word. Whatever feelings Dedue brings to his surface, he finds he quite enjoys them. Cherishes them.</p><p>Dedue sits at his feet, between his legs, resting his head against Hubert’s inner thigh. A particularly thick book sits open in his lap, and he pours over the pages, relaxing into Hubert’s touch.</p><p>Perhaps it is muscle memory that makes his fingers itch, a longing for some semblance of familiar intimacy he once shared with Edelgard, resulting in Hubert quietly playing with Dedue’s hair while he plans a lesson for the village children the next day. He attempts to replicate some of the hairstyles worn by the Duscur he meets through his work in his apothecary. Some days, when the memories of his past don’t gnaw so uncomfortably at his mind, he falls further into familiar patterns, styling Dedue’s hair in Adrestian fashion. </p><p>Hubert doesn’t remember when they fell into this particular routine- it certainly began after they succeeded in their efforts to topple house Kleiman, after he and Dedue settled in Duscur for several quiet months. Though, the exact moment and circumstances of their domesticity is a puzzle. But then, much of their relationship is. The two of them are a mystery. An accident. Unintentional and non-linear. Two creatures clinging desperately to each other before all else.</p><p>“I like your hair like this,” he murmurs softly, beginning a braid at the crown of Dedue’s head. “It suits you.”</p><p>“I am happy you think so,” Dedue hums in reply, the hint of a smile in his voice. “Though any credit for the upkeep is yours. I would look rather unkempt were it not for your efforts.”</p><p>It’s only partially true. While Dedue is never one to fret much over his appearance, never dressing in an overtly fashionable way, he always manages to look effortlessly handsome. Handsome even with flecks of soil on his cheek after spending free afternoons in the gardens with Hubert, handsome as he bustles around the house- children from the village clinging to his legs, handsome with the numerous scars littering his skin- reminders of a war that never feels far enough behind them, handsome with sleep still clouding his vision when his eyes first open in the morning. Hubert is often struck by how fortunate he is to witness these sides of Dedue day in and day out, sides of Dedue he wouldn’t have come to know had their futures progressed the way either of them intended.</p><p>Dedue scribbles notes in the margin of his book, muttering something quietly under his breath.</p><p>“What sort of lesson is on the docket for the morning?” Hubert asks, peeking over Dedue’s shoulder.</p><p>“Arithmetic,” he says. “I’ve forgotten how much I despise the subject.”</p><p>“If I recall correctly, you are quite good at it,” he laughs. “Though I suppose we don’t always love the things we are good at. Will the children even sit still long enough for such a lesson?”</p><p>“They may not,” Dedue laughs, “which is just as well.”</p><p>“With the amount of rest you get, I am surprised you have any energy to teach them at all.”</p><p>“If I recall, <em> last </em>night, you did not seem to have complaints about the late hour.”</p><p>“How dare you weaponize my emotions against me,” Hubert hisses against Dedue’s ear, nudging him playfully with his foot.</p><p>“I believe it was you who taught me emotions were the most easily exploited facet of a person,” Dedue laughs before turning a page in the book.</p><p>They joke about their emotions and their closeness <em> now </em>. At the Academy, Hubert made it a point not to get close to those who would stand to oppose Lady Edelgard, as his duty so naturally demanded. Because Dedue was Dimitri’s right hand, he seemed the prime candidate to avoid, even hate. But he couldn’t. Whether it was by fate’s design or pure coincidence, they kept running into each other in the greenhouse, in the hallways of the monastery at ungodly hours of the night- rushing to perform personal tasks or errands in the precious few moments they had to themselves, in classrooms, even side by side on the battlefield.</p><p>Taking an interest in Dedue was foolish at best. Perhaps the most selfish thing Hubert has ever allowed himself to do. Though, saying he <em> allowed </em>it is rather generous. He fought tooth and nail to bury it, fight it, ignore it, destroy it, purge it, all to no avail. The low rumble of Dedue’s voice, the gentle ferocity in his eyes, the strength behind his calloused hands, they all imprinted themselves into Hubert’s mind, filling whatever empty spaces he had, flooding his being with such a distracting warmth. He was just as unfamiliar with the emotions clamoring in his chest then as he is now, though at the time, he was only confident in the fact that he wanted to be rid of them rather than revel in them as he does now. </p><p>Once the war broke out, the curiosity, lust- whatever the correct term was- that he and Dedue shared was much easier to bury. Dedue was farther from his thoughts as he spent his days occupied with his bloody tasks, drinking in the successes he shared with Lady Edelgard. She was his purpose and he had room for little else in his mind. He was sure he was far from Dedue’s thoughts as well- the two of them much the same.  Dedue was just as loyal to his lord Dimitri, just as attentive and steadfast. Just as feared among his enemies.</p><p>In the end, their reputations and skills seemed of little consequence- Edelgard and Dimitri fell with the same permanence and finality as any other soldier.  Both consumed and driven by their goals, both with paths cut short and dreams unachieved. Both leaving Dedue and Hubert standing in the dust of the aftermath, broken, wandering, looking for something to fill the holes that war left them with. </p><p>Hubert thought he’d meet his end. He sustained massive injuries in Enbarr and was content to be left in the streets to die. He’d delivered his final message, revealing the truth of what he knew of the Agarthans, knowing Claude and the professor were more than capable of wiping them from the face of the world. If he and Edelgard couldn’t see their destruction, at least they could find peace in the eternal flames knowing their scourge has ended.</p><p>His work was done.</p><p>It was Dedue who found him after the battle, somehow clinging to life despite his resignation to die. It was agonizing. More agonizing than the physical pain, was the realization he had been wrenched from the jaws of death, that soldiers would have come to finish the job had Dedue not found him first. He could have joined Lady Edelgard- who he knew was dead even before Dedue relayed the news- he <em> should </em> have joined her. Pressing on without her, without a purpose… it felt pointless. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The fire crackles, filling the heavy silence between the two of them. Absentmindedly, he twists Edelgard’s hair between his fingers, easily pulling the strands into intricate braids. She sits still, her eyes never leaving the fire. Her posture is stiff, not as relaxed as it usually is in the quiet moments they share between the two of them. </em>
</p><p><em> “Is something on your mind, my Lady?” He asks. He already knows the answer. Her mind must be buzzing with thousands of thoughts, never idle, never resting. With Claude practically on their doorstep, he wonders if she’ll sleep tonight. He knows </em> he <em> won’t. </em></p><p>
  <em> “I suppose I’m entertaining the possibility of failure for the first time,” she laughs, but her voice is breathy. Shaky. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “A future you needn’t consider,” he reassures her. They’ve come this far already, enjoyed much success in such a short period of time, and they had no one to thank but themselves. Their years of careful planning, strategically cultivated alliances, unwavering dedication to the future they’ve dreamed of. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Surely you don’t imagine I’m foolish enough to think failure isn’t just as likely as victory.” Her tone is light. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Not foolish,” he corrects. “Capable. Intelligent. Powerful.” Self-deprecation doesn’t suit her. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He grabs another section of her white hair, weaving it into the braid he’s started behind her ear. The complexity of the braid or, rather, braids, isn’t needed- she will simply be going to bed, and she’s certainly never commanded him to take up the task. It is merely a nightly pattern they’ve fallen into throughout the years, long before the war, long before their days at the Academy- when they were children. When she was four and he was six. When his unsure, small hands would practice weaving braids into her hair- it was brown then- repeating the steps his mother had demonstrated on his own hair that very morning. His hands are far more practiced now, more confident, though he’s long since stopped wearing braids and ribbons and the like- but he’s always appreciated the closeness this nightly ritual brings. He can let his mind wander safely in her presence, and she can do the same. Some nights they sit in silence, some nights they report, some nights they talk as if no one else in the world exists but the two of them. It’s simply a way for them to be together.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I am grateful for your faith in me,” she says, reaching up with her hand and lightly squeezing his. “I am grateful to have you by my side in all things.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “There is nowhere else I’d rather stand, My Lady. You know this.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I do.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There’s a brief pause between the two of them. He continues to work, still noting the tension hanging in the air. When Edelgard breaks the silence, the question that falls from her lips is not one he’s expecting, though it isn’t the first time she’s asked. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “What would you do? If I were not here, or should something happen to me?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He’s so unused to having no answer or solution or placating phrase. Even with the number of times she’s asked, he has no suitable response, his thoughts abruptly hitting a wall. He’s imagined the future countless times- a future where Edelgard takes the throne, a future that roots out the necessity of crests- perhaps even finds a way to rid bloodlines of them entirely. He’s imagined peace- days of normalcy with no thoughts of war or death. He’s imagined Fodlan in its greatness, without the presence of the Agarthans. But in all these futures, Edelgard herself is at the helm. Steering fate the way she decides it best. Whatever future he imagines, it’s hers. Ones that she’s carved for herself, for him, for people living and dead and for those yet to be. He’s told her, perhaps not so eloquently, that he admires her. In spite of time offering her nothing but cruelty and pain, she finds a way to twist that pain into hope, to force fate to give kindness and patience, rather than an endless cycle of abuse. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Have we not had this conversation once before?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yes, many times,” she laughs again, “But… I truly wish to know. In success or failure, things will change for the two of us. And you promised you’d share more of yourself with me. I’m merely taking you up on the offer.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Very well,” he sighs, “I can only offer you the simple truth. You may think me a fool if you wish. I cannot say I’ve ever imagined the possibility of a future without you in it.” He finishes the braid, quickly interweaving it with the other he’s started, her hair now sitting in a crown circling her head. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “It isn’t treason to imagine,” she teases, “In fact, I’d encourage it, particularly with the… uniqueness of my circumstances. Even if we survive the war, you and I both know my days are still numbered. I’m not invincible.” She turns to look at him, but the smile plastered on her face seems forced. Practiced. Guarded. She must really be shaken if she feels she has to hide some part of herself from him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “To me you are,” he says, kneeling beside her and taking her hand in his. He gazes into her face, her familiar features, his constant across the years. “I’ve seen you at your most vulnerable, and you possess a drive and tenacity most men could only dream of.” He gives her hand a reassuring squeeze.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “What would you do?” she repeats the question, her eyes sparkling with some curious emotion he couldn’t quite identify. Perhaps he is too tired. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “My Lady-” </em>
</p><p><em> “-If I fall, what would you do? What </em> will <em> you do, Hubert?” </em></p><p>
  <em> “If you fall, then I would most certainly already be dead. My life is not mine, it is yours. I am a tool, a weapon for you to point in the proper direction. Without your guidance, I am nothing. I desire nothing. I serve no purpose other than yours. You can find other tools and weapons, but I cannot find another I’d wish to follow so adamantly.”  </em>
</p><p><em> She brings a hand to the side of his face, cupping his cheek. Her eyes search his face, suddenly swimming with an emotion he </em> does <em> recognize, an emotion he’s seen her wear far too many times for his liking. Her violet eyes have lost their sparkle and instead, pools of darkness shimmer and he could drown in the infinite depths of sadness they contain. </em></p><p>
  <em> “I wish you’d been shown love,” she sighs. Her fingers lightly trace across his cheekbones- their careful touch contrasting with the abruptness of her words.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Von Vestras aren’t made to experience love,” he chuckles, ignoring how much he sounds like his father. He has no use for such an emotion. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Edelgard’s gaze doesn’t lighten. Her brow furrows as she regards him for a moment. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I wish that you felt you meant something to me other than the words your father drilled into you and forced you to regurgitate. Perhaps it is my own fault I could not prove to you that you mean something more than whatever your royal title may be. I do depend on you, it’s true. In fact, I’m not entirely certain as to how successful I’d be without you by my side. I would likely have failed long ago. But I want you to know, no matter what happens to me, if I should die before you, you don’t have to follow.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Lady Edelgard, I-” He falters. It isn’t that he thinks of his relationship with Edelgard as simplistically as his father taught him to. She is more to him than just an Empress- she could have nothing, no title or riches, and he’d still gladly follow her into the depths of the eternal flames. He simply doesn’t have the words to describe quite what she means to him. His bond with her is different than friends or lovers or any such terms. It’s deeper somehow.  </em>
</p><p><em> “-If you must think of our relationship in such a formal way, imagine that I’d still have use for you even after my death. That the things we stand for can still live on, so long as you do. You can keep me alive. Fate may have cut my time short, but fate has also given me </em> you <em> . It would be careless not to remember that.” </em></p><p>
  <em> She presses a kiss to his forehead. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Think of it as an Imperial decree,” she laughs. This time, it seems lighter, as if laughing and speaking her mind has eased some of her worries. As though telling him he is loved, he is capable of being loved, worthy of it, despite his title or his name, has lifted a burden off her shoulders. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That burden is now placed on Hubert’s.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps that was the moment he and Dedue truly saw eye to eye- when the dust settled and they realized they were condemned to the same fate. No power or influence to speak of, no desires of their own to carry out, no gods, no kings, no allegiances, only each other. The two of them painted with the same stripes of pain and emptiness, displaced from every home and welcoming circle outside of the refuge of each other’s arms.</p><p>Of course, he hasn’t always thought of Dedue as his safe place to land. Not even in their dalliances in their Academy days did Hubert dream he’d actually allow Dedue to <em> mean </em>something permanent to him. That was a lesson that only came with time. </p><p>He traces his fingers down the braids he’s weaved before pressing a soft kiss to the top of Dedue’s head. He’s noted several of the children wearing this hairstyle. Simple, but flattering. Now Dedue would have braids to match his students.</p><p>Dedue stirs slightly beneath him, raising his head from its perch atop his thigh.</p><p>“Finished,” Hubert says. “You ought to sleep.”</p><p>Dedue moves slowly, stretching his arms, reluctant to leave his position entangled with Hubert. How he has managed to doze off on the hard floor with nothing but Hubert’s fingers and thigh for comfort is somewhat of a complete mystery, but Hubert finds it flattering all the same.</p><p>“Come, the floor is no place for you to sleep,” he stands, helping Dedue to his feet. Dedue offers thanks in the form of a gentle kiss pressed to his cheek. With fingers interlaced, they slowly make their way to the bedroom.</p><p>Dedue lifts his free hand to his hair, letting his fingers ghost over his new braids, thoughtfully studying the style through touch. He makes it a game of guessing the style Hubert has selected for him. Adrestian hairstyles always stump him, but the braids and styles of Duscur, he easily guesses. Often, after the guess, and after he’s taken the time to admire Hubert’s handiwork, Dedue has to laugh and explain the cultural significance of the style. No matter how far Hubert is from the mark, Dedue humors him and keeps his hair styled just so, until the sun rises the next morning and sleep has all but destroyed his hair. Before they part for the day, each tending to their specific duties, Hubert insists on re-styling it in Dedue’s preferred simple ponytail.</p><p>Tonight seems one of the rare occasions Dedue can’t quite pinpoint what style Hubert has settled on for the evening. Perhaps it is because his eyes are still heavy with sleep. He continually runs his fingers through the braids, but any guess is absent from his lips.</p><p>“Have the elders convinced you to try something new?” he finally asks, the hint of a laugh in his voice. “I cannot quite recognize the pattern and I know you are far too talented to have done it wrong.”</p><p>“Flattery will not earn you an answer,” Hubert says. He releases Dedue’s hand and walks to the armoire. He dresses for bed, shedding some of his layers. Hubert complains often about the cold, but it is much more comfortable to sleep in a simple light shirt, not to mention he is fond of the excuse it gives him to sleep closer to Dedue. “Really, love, you should know me better than that.”</p><p>Dedue offers a hum in response, still running his fingers down the braids, his handsome screwed up in concentration. Once or twice he looks as though he may have a guess, but ultimately remains silent.</p><p>“It is not Adrestian?”</p><p>“You are too proud. Admit defeat already,” Hubert laughs, shaking his head and jerking his chin in the direction of the small mirror in the corner of their room. He leans against one of the posts of their bed frame, his arms crossed over his chest and watches Dedue move, frozen in anticipation.</p><p>As Dedue stares at his reflection, Hubert immediately senses something off. The mood filling the room shifts, ever so slightly. Dedue’s tired expression melts away and his eyes widen and briefly flicker with… something, some unspoken pain. His gaze lingers on his reflection a few moments too long despite his clear discomfort. When he finally turns from the mirror, he stops his hand as it twitches to touch the braids once more, as though he suddenly remembers Hubert’s presence in the room. Ever aware of his composure, Dedue quickly masks his expression- he would appear neutral to the untrained eye, but Hubert knows better. Knows Dedue better. The muscles in his back are tense, the corners of his mouth pressed a little tighter than usual, his eyes unable to easily settle on a place to look.</p><p>“Saints,” he swears, uncrossing his arms and taking a few tentative steps toward Dedue, “I’ve done something foolish, haven’t I?”</p><p>Dedue raises a hand, shaking his head.</p><p>“My apologies,” his voice is soft. Too soft. “It seems I am more fatigued than I originally thought.”</p><p>“You’re a horrible liar.”</p><p>“Hubert,” Dedue says, his tone still soft, but serving as a warning. It isn’t a subject he wants to broach.</p><p>All at once, Hubert feels absolutely <em> horrid </em>. Hurting people came so easily to him in the past. It was something he was good at, something he relished in, something he stopped feeling guilty about years ago. Pain was even something he imagined he’d have to inflict upon Dedue in the course of the war. But now, the knowledge that he has done something hurtful, even unintentionally, makes the air rush out of his lungs. He can feel his heart beating in his throat.</p><p>Dedue sighs, relaxing his posture. The farther away he moves from the mirror, the more at ease he seems- the tension melting from his muscles.. Hubert pulls him closer, letting his hands fly up to Dedue’s hair and quickly undoing the braids that are clearly the culprit of his distress. The intricate designs slip so easily out of his silver strands.</p><p>Up until now, Hubert’s blunders due to his lack of cultural knowledge have been relatively harmless, mostly explained away with a laugh. This… this seems much more grievous than that. He can’t help but bitterly think it was bound to happen eventually- he was so insistent on shoving himself into a place where he doesn’t belong. He isn’t meant for domesticity or deeper bonds or peaceful days. </p><p>Von Vestras aren’t meant for that. They thrive in chaos. </p><p>Familiar feelings of inadequacy bubble to the surface, and he curses his own stupidity. His father’s voice, a voice he assumed he’s long silenced, floats to mind. </p><p><em> Our veins only hold power for destruction, there is room for nothing else, my boy. You’ve played your little game long enough. It’s unsustainable. Where von Vestras can’t find chaos, we create it, and, oh, what delicious chaos you’ve created. </em> </p><p>He’s long since vowed to never be the kind of man his father was, but it seems despite his best efforts, he can’t run from his true nature.</p><p>“Whatever it is that I’ve done, tell me,” Hubert pleads. His voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to him- has none of its regular composure and lilt. Instead it sounds shaky. Uncertain. He is… afraid. Not of Dedue, of course, but of the implications of his actions. Mistakes are rare for him. Inexcusable. He’s been raised knowing that.  “You needn’t worry about sparing my feelings.”</p><p>“You have done nothing wrong,” Dedue says gently. He takes Hubert’s hands in his own and holds them to his chest, warmth radiating off his skin. His touch sends familiar tingles down Hubert’s spine, but the sensation does nothing to comfort him as it usually would. Especially as he notes Dedue doesn’t return his gaze, instead keeping his eyes fixated on their interlaced fingers.</p><p>“Those braids… they’re primarily worn by those who still have living blood relatives. It’s why some of the children don’t have them. It’s…why <em> I </em>don’t have them.”</p><p>“Flames,” Hubert swears, “Dedue, I am…” he clenches his jaw, pulling his hands away from Dedue’s and taking a step backward. He lowers his eyes to the floor, familiar feelings of inadequacy bubbling to the surface. “I haven’t the words to offer the apology you deserve.”</p><p>“You couldn’t have known,” Dedue shakes his head. “There is nothing you need to apologize for.”</p><p>“I should have known, I had so many ways to find out the symbolism these customs carry. Ignorance is a poor excuse.” </p><p>“Hubert, you have done nothing wrong,” Dedue repeats, taking a step forward.  His voice is firm. “It was simply a harmless mistake.”</p><p>“Harmless,” Hubert scoffs. “When you wake in the middle of the night tonight, screams ringing in your ears, will you find it harmless then?”</p><p>Of course, despite it all, his poison, his <em> filth </em>would find a way to the surface. Would find a way to destroy… whatever it is he and Dedue share. </p><p>In their time together, Hubert has quickly learned that Dedue hates taking up emotional space, seeing his own needs as something of an inconvenience to others. A few times the subject of the Tragedy has been broached out of necessity- ghosts of the past hanging over Dedue’s head, Hubert doing his best to pull him back to the present. Dedue apologizes after every occurence, each whispered apology making Hubert’s heart pang. The nightmares don’t happen often, but they do happen. Despite his lack of understanding, he once thought he had the ability to help keep these harsh dreams at bay, or at least provide his own odd flavor of comfort when the ghosts inevitably set upon Dedue. </p><p>But instead, he’s brought the memories back with a simple, thoughtless gesture.</p><p>Dedue is silent for several beats, shuffling quietly to the bed, sitting unceremoniously on the edge of the mattress. His eyes are trained on the wood floor.</p><p>“I was simply surprised,” Dedue says, breaking the silence. “In the mirror... For a moment, it was like I was face to face with my father.” He looks up at Hubert, his eyes swimming with conflicting emotions.</p><p>“I apologize for calling forward such memories.”</p><p>“No,” Dedue shakes his head. “It wasn’t an entirely painful moment. Just unexpected. Since reestablishing Duscur to even a fraction of its former glory, something I was sure I wouldn’t live to see, I find myself thinking of family often. Braids or no, the thoughts are unavoidable.” He motions for Hubert to sit beside him. </p><p>“I suppose seeing my father in my reflection makes me wonder what he would think of the man I’ve become. Of the choices I’ve made.” </p><p>Hubert moves slowly, sinking into the mattress beside Dedue. He has no comforting words, no such questions about his own father’s thoughts. Dedue doesn’t seem to mind. Neither of them speak much of the past, especially not of their lives before the Academy. They know the broad strokes of each other’s histories and that seems to work well enough. Hubert is touched, however, by Dedue’s sudden vulnerability. Enamored with the sound of his voice as he allows himself to become entranced by nostalgia.</p><p>“He was a good man. Quiet. Incredibly kind. Something of a poet, I’m told. My mother always said I looked so much like him. As a boy I couldn’t see it, but as always, she was right.”</p><p>“What was she like? Your mother?”</p><p>“She would join in with the other elders and tease you by telling you to eat more,” he says, brushing his knuckles against Hubert’s cheekbone. “She was an excellent cook and single-handedly saw to it that no traveler left our village hungry. And she had an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Quite similar to yourself,” he nudges Hubert gently with his shoulder. “She’d have you teach her all your secrets.”</p><p>“She’d have to be very persuasive,” Hubert jokes. Dedue lets out a light laugh and it lifts Hubert’s spirits ever so slightly.</p><p>“She would have you eating out of her hand.”</p><p>“She sounds lovely,” Hubert says, his eyes falling to the floor. He takes a breath before continuing, “At the risk of overstepping boundaries, I would find it hard to imagine that your parents are anything but pleased with the person you’ve become.” </p><p>“It is kind of you to say so.”</p><p>“I did not mean to startle you with such memories. Once more, I must beg your forgiveness.”</p><p>“This again?” Dedue asks, his voice still light. “If you are so determined that I should be angry with you, then consider it so,” he lifts Hubert’s chin and meets his gaze. There is no edge in his voice, no harshness in his glance. His eyes are soft. Where Hubert would draw away, Dedue moves slowly forward, gently pulling him into his arms. “I am furious with you,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of Hubert’s head.</p><p>“You <em> should </em> be,” Hubert whispers, accepting the warmth of Dedue’s embrace. “I do not deserve you.”</p><p>He buries his face in Dedue’s chest, squeezing his eyes shut.</p><p>“How could I be angry with you? You are throwing yourself wholeheartedly into Duscur culture. It is a lot to learn, but it means the world to me that you <em> want </em> to. That you try.”</p><p>Dedue releases him, shifting from his position and settling in a kneeled position at Hubert’s back. He gently combs his fingers through Hubert’s hair before speaking up again.</p><p>“I may not have any blood family left, no reason to wear those particular braids, but I have <em> you. </em>”</p><p>His fingers are nimble, but gentle. So many questions bubble to the surface of Hubert’s mind, but he lets them sit, settling on biting his lip instead.</p><p>“I was once told that by being alive, I kept my culture and my family alive too. It is a sentiment I’ve come to cherish, even after watching Duscur rise again.” His fingers reach the ends of Hubert’s hair and he shifts once more, sliding off the bed and pulling Hubert to his feet. He leads Hubert over to the mirror, letting him stare at his own reflection.</p><p>Hubert studies the plait Dedue has woven. It sits on the left side of his face, the patterns somewhat familiar. He’s seen them on some of the adults, and quite a few of the children in Dedue’s classes, yet there’s something unique about them. Something slightly Adrestian. He runs his fingers across the braid. It is surprisingly intricate, despite Dedue’s ability to complete the braid in such a short amount of time.</p><p>“My blood family is gone as well,” he starts, but Dedue stops him.</p><p>“These braids are more appropriate,” he says. He turns his eyes on his own reflection as he speaks, weaving an identical pattern into his silver hair. “For family that isn’t blood.”</p><p>Hubert feels the air rush out of his lungs for what feels like the hundredth time that evening, though the feeling is entirely different from before. His mind repeats Dedue’s words over and over.</p><p>Family that isn’t blood.</p><p><em> Family </em>.</p><p>“These smaller twists here belong to the Molinaro family,” Dedue explains, lightly running his fingers over Hubert’s hair. “And these,” he motions to the intricate swirls- Adrestian- he’s braided, “I’ve noted are your favorite. Combining braids like this is a Duscur tradition… usually it’s a ceremony performed at weddings, ” he hesitates, a light flush dusting his cheeks. “I, ah, hope it isn’t too forward of me. But somehow, despite the way it seemed we would end up, you are the only family I’ve had in years.”</p><p>“You would have me?” Hubert asks incredulously, “Flawed and bitter and poisonous as I am?”</p><p>“How else would I have you?”</p><p>Again, the air rushes from Hubert’s lungs and though Dedue is pressed up behind him, he feels that they can never be close enough. He turns away from the mirror, instead looking up into Dedue’s eyes, relishing in the hunger that fills the pit of his stomach, the ache that claws at his heart.</p><p>He reaches up and kisses Dedue. He kisses him over and over and over again, his heart pounding in his chest.</p><p>When they kiss, Hubert is finally able to pinpoint the mysterious emotions that have been swirling around in his chest night after night since their days at the Academy. Emotions he didn’t recognize, didn’t care to name, emotions he’s heard of so often yet felt he never had the fortune to experience for himself.</p><p>When they kiss, he is <em> home. </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>lms if u have deduebert brainworms</p></blockquote></div></div>
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